


Anemoi

by Calima



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, I apologize for fridging Turgon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calima/pseuds/Calima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her husband's death on the Helcaraxë, Elenwë builds a new home for their daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anemoi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solanaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/gifts).



_Winter, Barad Eithel. 10 Y.S._

Ñolofinwë, occupied by his maps, has not spoken for the better part of an hour. Lalwen allows her gaze to wander, idly observing the activity outside the window at her brother’s back.  Laborers dragging stones in place for the rising keep. A light dusting of snow on the inner courtyard.

“It will be finished soon.”

“Hmmm?” He doesn’t look up.

“Your fortress.” She crosses to the window, angling her head for a better view of the construction. “And a fine one, it will be. If only all the cities of your realm had such defenses.”

That got his attention. “I don’t like insinuations. We’ve discussed this – “

“ _You’ve_ discussed this. And the fact remains – something must be done in the matter of the governorship of Nevrast.”

“Something will be done. Soon. When Barad Eithel is complete.”

She sighs. “So you’ve said. Tell me, then, what will you do? The situation is delicate politically. For all we’ve been granted lands there, even Sindicollo can’t pretend the region is unoccupied forever. Subtlety’s required – that’s Findekáno out – unless you plan on ruling from the south, and leaving him to guard the Northern border.”

“Impossible. He’s too young.”

Lalwen takes note of his sharp, decisive nod, a characteristic gesture of their father’s. She wonders if he’s aware of the movement. Most likely not. It would be just like Ñolofinwë to cultivate the late king’s mannerisms as a subtle sign of assurance to their followers, but he’s never felt the need to employ such methods with her. _Oh, my dear brother. The work is getting to him_. “None of us are exactly experts in military strategy. And someone needs to govern your kingdoms.” She looks down at him through her lashes. “If you won’t.”

He turns to face her, with a deep, hoarse groan. “I can’t elevate one of Turukano’s lords without insulting the others. Besides, they’re specialists. All things being equal, the legitimacy conferred by a royal appointment would – but it’s impossible.”

Her brother – she’s often said it – is a man of deep and subtle understanding. Coupled, on this occasion, with profound ignorance. “Ñolofinwë. You have _two_ living children.”  

***

“I won’t do it.”

“Now, Irissë, be reasonable – “

Ñolofinwë has survived pitched battles, forced ice-marches, and family gatherings alike in a state of cold, unruffled poise, but arguments with his daughter invariably pushed him to near his breaking point. Now, three hours and two sets of smashed crockery into their discussion, Lalwen deems it necessary to intervene.

“Your time would still be your own, love, for the most part. A ruling council will be assembled, of lords experienced in civil government. You’ll be needed to maintain the political balance, of course, but beyond that – “

“So I’m to be a _figurehead?”_ Irissë spat. “Don’t insult me so. If you plan to treat me like a child, why not use Itarillë?”

Itarillë looks up at the sound of her name. She opens her mouth to speak, and then turns quickly to her mother, waiting for her nod. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she sits so still and straight in her chair that one might easily forget that her legs are dangling. “If Aunt Irissë does not want to be a Queen, and rule in Nevrast, I think that I might manage it. I have made a study of the principles of government – as befits a lady of your house, Grandfather.”

Ñolofinwë smiles, and lifts her onto his lap. “Indeed it does, my darling – even the very little ones. But it might be best to wait awhile to implement them in practice.”

Lalwen relaxes, only now aware of the tension in her posture. The anger has dissipated. Across from her, Irissë smiles. “If only you were older, Queen Itarillë. I am sure you would put us all to shame.”

“Why not wait until she’s older?” Ñolofinwë turns to Lalwen. “We could appoint a regent – “

“Don’t look at me like that.” It’s unspoken between them – _you need me here_. Instead, Lalwen glances at the silent figure by the hearth. Turukano’s widow is wrapped in a thick shawl of blue wool, despite the roaring fire. She hasn’t yet spoken. Still, Lalwen can just make out a satisfied smile on her lips. Elenwë has been a great help to her, through all the months of planning, the careful manipulation of land apportionments. Judging by her smile, she knows it. All in preparation for this conversation? Lalwen can’t help but smile herself. _Clever girl._ It will be a shame to lose her to the south. She gestures towards Elenwë. “Besides – who could be a more natural choice than the child’s mother?”

Ñolofinwë nods. “If you say she’s competent, I have no objections.”

Elenwë nods. “My lady, my lord. I am honored by the trust you place in me.” She reaches out, and Itarillë runs to her side. She holds her daughter’s small hand tightly in her own.

***

“Ammë! Ammë!”

Elenwë turns away from a tense conversation with a serious-looking man carrying a fat ledger. Bundles of supplies are stacked around them in preparation for the journey south. Ñolofinwë’s castellan is fair and honest, but with winter already upon them, stingy with his stores of grain and meat. Irissë approaches them from across the courtyard, carrying Itarillë in her arms. She’s a little old for it, but it keeps her bare feet out of the snow.

When they make their way to her, Elenwë kisses Irissë on the cheek and lifts her daughter into her arms. “How was your day with Aunt Irissë, little one?”

Itarillë burrows into her mother’s cloak. “Oh, it was wonderful! She said she would take me riding, but then it started to snow, and then I suggested we could read about the plants that grow in Nevrast – Grandfather had a lovely illustrated book made for my last begetting day, with all sorts of plants and animals – so we can recognize them when we go riding there in the spring. I wish you could have helped, Ammë, but you’re always so busy _._ I feel as if you never come to see us!” She pauses to straighten her collar. “I hope they will have cornflowers in Nevrast. I am exceedingly fond of cornflowers.”

Elenwë kisses the top of her head. “If there are none, I’m sure that you will find something you like just as well.” Before he can protest, she hands Itarillë to the castellan. “Will you take her inside?”

“Lady Elenwë, we hadn’t decided on – “

“The cold’s not good for her.”

“Yes, Lady Elenwë.”

After watching both of them safely vanished through the castle door, Elenwë turns to Irissë. “Thank you for being so patient with Itarillë.”

Irissë favors her with a rueful smile. “Exceedingly is her new word. She is exceedingly pleased with her new cloak, and exceedingly annoyed that most of our books are packed, and _especially_ exceedingly glad that she is moving south, where she will have her own kingdom.”

“You bear it in exceedingly good humor, Irissë.”

She laughs. “I don’t mind it, really. It’s so good to see her happy about something again.”

Elenwë’s hands are flushed pink from the cold. She begins to draw them into her sleeves before Irissë sees and takes them in her own. Elenwë smiles. “I wish I could see her more. It’s my fault, I suppose. But with assisting Lalwen, and ensuring that Nevrast goes to Itarillë, the provisions – “

“It’s always one thing and the other.”

“Yes, exactly. It sounds so trivial, when you put it like that.”

Irissë begins to rub Elenwë’s hands, feeling the warmth seep into her fingers. “That isn’t what I meant. You’re working in Itarillë’s best interests. It’s hard for her now, but she’ll have cause to thank you.”

“Not so hard. She has her Aunt Irissë to look after her.”

“She hardly needs looking after.” When Elenwë raises an eyebrow, she nods energetically. “It’s true! I’ve never seen a more responsible child. It may be that the ice has aged her. Even so. I can tell she’ll be a great ruler, one day.”

“You look about ready to swear fealty here and now.”

Irissë sinks to her knees and raises her arms in a sweeping gesture of submission, before collapsing in helpless laughter. When Elenwë pulls her up and she is finally able to speak, there are tears in her eyes. “I’ve always had a difficult relationship with my father and brothers, that’s no secret. But Itarillë – Itarillë is the reason I made it across the ice, and I’m not ashamed to tell you, because I know you’d say the same. I’d follow her to the borders of Eä, I think.”

Elenwë can only nod. “I feel as if I must do more than that. I’d build a new world, just to be sure she could be happy in it.”

***

_Summer, Vinyamar. 15 Y.S._

“How many, Pendetano?”

“Almost two thousand, my lady.” His severe features are rigid, emotionless. The expression seems unnatural on a man who’d been a frequent guest in their home, a companion of Turukano’s childhood – but then, he’d always been more her husband’s friend than hers. Unconsciously, Elenwë pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Now, if he is not exactly her subordinate, neither is he her equal. He hasn’t yet determined the tenor of their new relationship. _Neither have I, when it comes to that._ He clears his throat, continues speaking. “Likely many more, over the next few days. We’ll need space, supplies.”

Elenwë nods with as much practiced grace as she can muster. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I have absolute faith in your ability to handle the more immediate concerns.” He remains planted by the door. She smiles. A little more thinly, this time. “Oh, and Penlodh – I would be extremely grateful if you left a message with the guards at the gate, for Princess Irissë. Tell her, when she returns to the city, that I’ve asked her to come and speak with me.”

He bows, turns, and exits. When he’s gone, Elenwë leaves her chair and closes the door behind him. _Wouldn’t do to catch a chill._ With any luck, she’ll have a few hours to go back over their lists of supplies, review the progress of the construction, readjust the long-term plan for their new city. Time to settle herself.

Five minutes later, Irissë bursts through the door. “You might have told me!”

Elenwë sighs, and puts down her pen. “Told you what, exactly?”

“That you decided to establish a curfew, and checks on entering and leaving the city. While I was hunting! You _knew_ I would be gone, with the lords who support my cause, and you took the opportunity to – “

“If my _council_ decided to put forward such measures during a time when you unfortunately could not be contacted, and circumstances compelled –“

“Don’t bullshit me.” Irissë tosses herself into the nearest chair, kicking her muddy boots aside.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me the first time.”

“Yes. Yes, I did.” Elenwë’s voice is hard. She wraps her fingers around the fabric of her shawl. “I was trying to give you an opportunity to recover. We might have had something resembling a civil discussion.” She takes a moment to compose herself. “If you’re unhappy here, you could always leave. Live with your father, or your brother. Both of them would be very happy to see you again.”

Irissë shakes her head. “My father’s unbearable when he thinks I’m in danger. I love him, but it’s true. And I should know, I’ve spent enough time getting into one sort of trouble or another.”

“And Findekáno?”

“He’s with him half the time. Not that either of them would let me out of their sight, that far north.”

“They have good reason, Irissë.”

“You think I don’t know that?” She realizes that she’s shouting, and sinks back into her chair. “I’m sorry, Elenwë. It’s not your fault things are like this. But I’d hoped – I’d hoped now that we’ve won a victory, had time to recover, to build, it would be like I dreamt of. Wide open lands to explore. Not like home, where you get to recognizing every tree, and they don’t _change._ Real danger, real challenges.”

Elenwë laughs. “Oh, tThose are real enough.”

Irissë smiles weakly, and then begins to laugh with her. Elenwë crosses the room, places her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders. “I’m sorry about the curfew and the other restrictions. I should have told you in advance. It’s because of the refugees, more than anything. There are so many coming in every day, now, and it’s getting harder to keep track of how many people there are, where they can find food and water, which groups are hostile. I’ll do my best to have them eased, when things are settled.”

“That’s still a bit harsh, Elenwë. It’s not like you.”

“For now, it’s necessary. To keep this city safe. To keep –“

As if on cue, Itarillë runs into the room, already dressed in court clothes. “Mother! Lord Pendetanotold me to come and find you. One of the leaders of the band of Sindar that arrived this morning is in the audience chamber. He’s waiting to see you.”

“And to see _you_ , little princess.” Elenwë smiles as she straightens her daughter’s robes. “Irissë, are you coming? If nothing else, this promises to be an interesting meeting.”

***

The private audience chamber is a jewel-box, the small room illuminated by twelve brilliant stained-glass windows depicting different species of Amanyar trees and flowers. The glass, and the simple furniture of polished wood, are the only concessions to the queen regent’s Vanyarin taste in the palace complex. Itarillë sits at the head of the table, Elenwë at her right hand. Irissë, seated beside her, turns to observe their guest. He stands near the door, a slight man of about Elenwë’s height. His garments are blue and black, and obviously well-worn. When she notices that his hands have the characteristic archer’s calluses, he rises in her estimation. She opens her mouth to speak. Light fingers brush the back of her hand. Elenwë. Her quick sideways glance is easy enough to read – not now. Leave this to me. Irissë clenches her other hand in a fist under the table.

When he speaks, his Quenya is lilting but barely comprehensible. “Lady Elenwë, I’ve come –“

She raises a hand to silence him and replies in Sindarin. “Elwen, please. You’ll forgive me for forgoing pleasantries. What is it that’s brought you to Nevrast?”

The man smiles. His accent is strange to Irissë’s ears, used to the harsher Northern dialects, but easy enough to understand. “Lady Elwen. I’ve been sent to beg your permission to settle here. We’re not demanding, my people, we can hunt, and fend for ourselves as need be. We’re scouts, and rangers, none finer west of Doriath, and we’ll gladly serve as such. All we ask is the protection of your walls and your armies, when the dark one comes.”

Elenwë – Elwen – pauses for a moment, and then motions for him to sit. “You seem very certain that he _will_ come. It’s a long way to Nevrast from – “

“Eglarest, lady. Though we’re from Talaith Dirnen originally, before the war. We retreated to the Falas when our homes were destroyed. Us, and too many like us. Many starved. Lord Cirdan is a good man, and he wouldn’t have asked us to leave without good cause. But food is limited. There’s no place for us in any fortified city in the south.  And those of us as survived aren’t inclined to take chances.”

The stranger’s face, Irissë thinks, is unsuited to grief. His tone and expression are grim, but both suggest a man more used to laughter. Elenwë is infuriatingly calm. There’s a moment before she begins to share her sympathy with characteristic warmth, (the moment?) so brief that no one would notice unless they knew her well. For an instant, she seemed almost mechanical. Irissë can feel her nails digging into her palm. _Masks and masks._ When she looks up, they’re back to business.

“We won’t be able to provide permanent housing within the city walls for several months. With the construction progressing as it is -”

“No, no that’s perfectly alright! If we could have some material for tents, new arrows, goats and chickens, maybe -” He gulps, realizing his interruption. “That is, if you find it acceptable.”

“More than acceptable. We’ve need of archers, all the better if you’re functionally self-sufficient. We’ll need to speak again, once your people are more settled.”

“Of course. You can send for me at the camp, whenever you like. I’m called Duilin.”  

It takes a moment for Irissë to translate the word between dialects. “For the swallow?” She asks him, all in one breath, and smiles to herself without meeting Elenwë’s eyes.

 “Indeed, my lady.” He makes an exaggerated half-bow in her direction. “I’m something of a songbird, myself.”

Elenwë tilts her head to one side. “I hadn’t thought that swallows were known for their singing.”

Duilin laughs. “They’re not, and neither am I. A talented amateur, if you’ll let me stretch the truth a bit.” He rises, abruptly. “Forgive me, Lady Elwen. It’s thin, as humor goes, but my attempts at music are usually worth a laugh.”

“I’d love to hear you sing, Duilin.”

“For your sake, I pray you never will.” He bows to her, and to Itarillë, this time with more restraint. “In truth, my name signifies loyalty. You won’t regret this, lady, you or the little queen.”

After the door is shut behind him, Irissë turns to Elenwë. “Charming man. Do you think we can trust him?”

Elenwë’s head is resting in her hands, the heels of her palms rubbing slow circles against her forehead. “I think we have no choice. We need him, and others like him.”

 _Spare me the lecture._ “Archers?”

“Diplomats _._ He knows this land and its people, their tongues, their customs, their history. Neither of us came here to build another Tirion. We cannot live in isolation, _Aredhel_ , if we are to survive.”

***

_Autumn, Vinyamar. 19 Y.S._

Idril has grown. Her legs no longer dangle from the throne when she holds court. She speaks, sometimes, in council, and wanders the upper city without attendants. Elwen sends them afterwards, following at a distance, and worries over the flagstones and her bare feet. The nights are getting colder.

“Ammë?”

She carefully puts away her pens and ink, the close-written scrolls of parchment, before looking up. Idril stands in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back. “Have you been working _all_ day?” Before Elwen can respond, she runs over to the desk and takes hold of her wrists. “You know, I can see you’re tired. Come, talk with me. Some time away from all of this –“ she gestures to the piles of ledgers, urgent missives, and assorted miscellaneous documents “-will do you good.”

Elwen extricates herself from her daughter’s grip. “I’d love nothing more, but trade agreements –“

“- will be there in the morning. Besides, it might help to look at them when you’re rested.” Idril tugs at her sleeve. “Please? I feel like we haven’t spoken in months.”

She lets herself be pulled away from the desk and towards the bed. Idril sits down beside her. “Aredhel took me riding with her today.”

“I didn’t know you liked riding.”

Idril smiles. “I don’t. But I haven’t been outside the city walls in – oh, far too long – and we met some of Duilin’s people. And the woods are lovely now.  I wish you could have come”

Elwen thinks of the hours spent together, the rustling of fallen leaves, Aredhel’s laughter. “Better that I didn’t. I had asked Aredhel to attend my council today, I suspect she arranged this trip to avoid it. I’m not sure what I would have said to her.”

Idril raises her fingers to her lips. _She used to bite her nails, when she was a girl_. “Do you think she’s unhappy?”

“I – I think she’s frustrated.” She shakes her head. “The last time she sat in council, I didn’t give her very much of a chance to speak.”

“She’s stubborn.”

Elwen wraps her daughter in her arms. Idril rests her head against her collarbone, and Elwen pulls her closer. “So was your father. So are you.”

“Mhmm.”

Elwen listens to her heartbeat for a while longer.

***

_Spring, Vinyamar. 23 Y.S._

The harpists have retired hours ago. The celebration has spilled past the palace doors, and the courtyard is filled with the sounds of flutes and pipes leading the guests in a snaking circle dance. Duilin leads a chorus of his relatives in a? bawdy Lindarin love song. His sister Glíwen and her new husband, Penlodh, are nowhere to be found, preferring each other’s company to the festivities in their honor. With each new verse, the dancers burst into raucous laughter.

Elwen’s head aches. She remembers her own wedding in Valimar, Turukáno struggling not to squint in the insistent light. His eyes had watered, but never left her face. Neither of them attended the party. No one notices when she slips into a covered path, leading to a side entrance. Her heavy gown drags on the narrow stone steps leading to her chambers. She would regret not making her apologies to the hosts, if they were present or sober enough to receive them.

She can hear the music, faintly, from her window, as she sets aside her shoes and begins to remove the more laborious of her outer garments. Contending with the various clasps and buckles requires just enough effort to keep her mind of other things. She runs her fingers over the pearls embroidered into her bodice, more elaborate than anything she’d worn in Valinor. She has more to prove, here.  When the garments are folded or hung, she shivers. It’s a warm night, and her shift should be comfortable enough, but she reaches for a shawl. Having fastened it about her shoulders, she sits on the bed. It’s not too late to get some work done. Maybe after a few minutes rest.

***

Aredhel dances. Her eyes sting with smoke from the open fires, for roasting deer and boar. The stars are very bright. So are the lamps, hung in swaying lines of blue and white. The music has developed a desperate, frenetic quality. _It’s been too long since we’ve had something to celebrate._ She feels a tug at her elbow.

“Idril?”

It’s too loud to hear her response, so Aredhel forces her way to the edge of the crowd. Her niece is waiting for her. “Have you seen my mother?”

“Elwen? I know she was here earlier. I saw her about an hour ago –“

“I think she’s left.”

“She’s probably tired.” Aredhel brushes her hand against Idril’s forehead. It’s not like her to worry like this.

“Maybe – but she hasn’t been acting like herself. Would you  - that is, if you don’t mind – would you go and see her?” Idril looks down at her folded hands. “I’d go myself, but she already thinks I worry too much.”

“Whereas I can hardly be accusing of caring.”

“I didn’t mean –“

Aredhel laughs. “I know. And I understand if she doesn’t like to have her daughter fuss over her.”

Idril looks affronted. “I don’t fuss.”

“Darling, when you were a child, you would harass your parents if they forgot to make you eat your vegetables. It’s not a bad quality, but –

“- not something she needs to hear from me right now.”

“Exactly.” Aredhel embraces Idril, briefly. “I’ll go talk to her.”

Elwen is lying on the bed. She pulls herself upright as soon as the door starts to open. Her hands twitch in her lap, Aredhel can tell she’s struggling not to straighten the covers. There are circles under her eyes. Suddenly, Idril’s errand seems poorly planned. She can see the need for it, but now? It would have been better to let her sleep.  “Are you alright, Elwen?”

“I am as well as I have been in a long while.” A non-response.

“Your daughter wanted me to –“

“My daughter wants you to convince me I’m overworked.” Elwen sighs, and motions for Aredhel to sit beside her. “I’m not entirely oblivious.”

“No, but Idril seems to think _I_ am.” Aredhel seats herself on the bed. “She didn’t tell me you’d discussed it.”

“We have, many times.”

Nothing seems to come as a surprise to Elwen, any more. It’s difficult to answer that. _Of course, I would be the last to know._ Aredhel shakes her head. _How like them._ “Is there anything new for me to say on the subject? Or should I leave you to your documents?”

She rises. Elwen catches at her sleeve. “I’d prefer you stay.” Aredhel swallows. It’s the most real thing she’s said, in recent months. She doesn’t sound tired. Something else. Lonely?

“Alright, then.”

Elwen gathers the cloth of her shawl in her hands before speaking. “Idril worries overmuch.”

“She cares about you.”

“I’ve never doubted that.” Her fingers worry the material, widening the gaps in the weave. “She worries that I am making myself indispensible.”

Aredhel doesn’t know what to say.  Elwen is the queen – queen regent, for a year yet. Isn’t she indispensible already, by nature of the position? “I’m sure she’ll be grateful for the work you’ve done when she takes the throne.”

Elwen shakes her head, very slowly. “That’s just the problem.” 

_No._

“Itarillë is still so young – “

Something seems to have settled in Aredhel’s throat. “Almost one hundred.”

“But the years are shorter here. It’s too much to burden her with. All because the sun has risen and set some arbitrary number of times. You have to understand, I’d build the world again for her –“

Aredhel kisses the corner of Elwen’s mouth. When Elwen continues to apologize, she traces the line of her jaw. _Please, please stop talking._

“I only wish that I’d done more. If I’d built a city that I could trust she would be safe in –“

Aredhel’s lips find the line of her neck. _I don’t want to hear it._ Elwen tenses a little, when she slides open the pin fastening her shawl, and the fabric slides from her shoulders. But she doesn’t pull away.

“I should have told you sooner.”

She nips the skin above Elwen’s collarbone, and hears a slight gasp. _Good. It’s not as if you’ve listened to me before. Don’t pretend my opinion matters now._ Elwen leans into her, closing the distance between them. Her skin feels cool through the slip.

“I  - ai! – Aredhel, I don’t know what to do.”

 _First time I’ve heard you admit that._ She pushes, lightly, and Elwen sinks back onto the bed. “I would never hurt her, she’s my daughter –“

 _She’s my niece. I half-raised her._   _And you’re – my brother’s wife? My friend?_ Both seem inadequate. _Don’t make me come between you._

“Maybe – hnn – maybe it would be better if I stated, formally, that I’ll continue – “

Aredhel presses her wrists into the mattress, and silences her with a kiss.

***

_Winter, Vinyamar, 24 Y.S._

Eglamoth sets down his pen and rubs his wrist. “Do they even produce trade goods?”

Salgant rubs his nose. “I can’t think they would, seeing as they don’t let anyone in.”

“They trade with the Falas, don’t they? And there’s the Dwarf-road.”

After three hours of discussing the advisability of opening trade relations with Doriath, only Galdor seems interesting in carrying the issue further. Elwen resists the temptation to sigh. “My lords. Doriath is the largest population center in Beleriand. A potential diplomatic relationship outweighs any value their merchandise may or may not bring us.”

Duilin practically pounds the table in his haste to rise. “Diplomacy means nothing to them! Begging pardon, lady – but if it’s military aid you want, look elsewhere.”

“Are you suggesting that King Thingol is untrustworthy?” Galdor pushes his chair back, as if to stand.

“I am offering our Lady Elwen the best advice it is in my power to give.”

“Thingol is our _king._ ”

“Feh! Some king, who refuses to allow starving refugees to pass through his girdle!”

“Because he’d already spent his soldiers’ lives in Ossiriand! He was defending our culture, our way of life, his people –“

“If we were his people, would he have abandoned us after allowing our homes to be destroyed?”

“He had no – “

“Galdor! Duilin!”

Galdor’s hands are curled into fists, and Duilin is gripping the hilt of his knife. The two lords pause and turn to Elwen, drained of their aggression. She closes the ledger on the table before her. “Enough. We will return to the issue at a later date.”

Eglamoth shuffles his papers. “Very well, then. Next item, the Lady Idril’s coronation.”

“No.”

“My lady?”

“This council is adjourned. I doubt we’ll achieve anything, with tempers as they are.”

Galdor and Duilin have the grace to appear shamefaced. The assembled lords begin to bow, and take their leave. Penlodh brushers her shoulder on the way out. His voice is below a whisper. “You’ll have to choose a position soon, Elwen. And stand by it.” Her fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

Aredhel doesn’t leave. “He’s not wrong.”

“You know why I – “

“No, Elwen, I _don’t._ And if you really plan to betray Idril, I don’t want to.”

“I’ll have to tell her.” She doesn’t meet Aredhel’s eyes.

“You’ve been saying that for months.”

“And I’ve _meant_ it, only – “

“Don’t.” Aredhel reaches out and grabs her shoulders, forcing her to look up. “You haven’t told Idril because you’re afraid you’ll hurt her. Which you will. Which is why you’re making a mistake.”

“Haven’t made. Yet. Technically.”

“Are planning on making, it doesn’t matter.” Aredhel leans back in her chair. “Do you think you could really do it?”

“It depends.” Without the pressure of Aredhel’s arms, Elwen slumps. “If Fingolfin doesn’t intervene, there’s a good chance. I’ll have Eglamoth certainly, I raised him to his position. Salgant, Duilin, and most likely Galdor, if they can be made to cooperate. Ecthelion will probably side with Idril. And Penlodh. Beyond that, I’m not certain.”

“You’re already talking about sides?”

Elwen rubs her brow. “Ideally, it won’t go so far as that.”

“You know she’ll fight you.”

“Yes.”

“And that I’ll support her.”

That statement wins a grim smile from Elwen. “Of course. She’s stubborn, you know. She gets that from your side of the family.”

Aredhel laughs. “I wonder.”

***

It’s not like Aredhel to lie abed after the sun has risen. Through the bay windows, Elwen can see pink light glittering on the waves. A narrow golden shaft bisects the sheets. But there she is, still sleeping.

“Mmghn.”

She mumbles and tosses, rolling onto her stomach. Elwen draws a few strands of hair away from her mouth, and then, careful not to wake her, traces her line of her back. There are scars, here and there, silver against the smooth, dark skin. Hunting accidents? Her fingers skim over a cracked, ridged patch. Elwen tenses. She always sleeps in a shift – shy about the frostbite marking her own body.

Aredhel sighs, and turns again. Her expression is calm. Elwen studies her face carefully. She doesn’t expect this peace will last. The sun rises another inch over the horizon. _How quickly time passes._

Elwen slips out of bed, shivering at the feel of the cold stone against her feet, and slides the curtains open.

Aredhel opens her eyes, blinking against the light.

**Author's Note:**

> The names used in this fic are all canonical, with two exceptions, Penlodh's Quenya name and Elenwë's Sindarin name. Penlodh is most likely related to the Sindarin words pend, meaning slope or declivity, and adlod, meaning sloping. Pendetano, the rough Quenya translation, means slope maker. The correct translation of Elenwë would probably be El or Elu (the -wë component doesn't have a meaning), but I decided to have her use Elwen for the sake of clarity.


End file.
